


The Witch And The Woodcutter

by DistortedDaytime



Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Friends to Lovers, Herbalism, M/M, Magical Realism, Mythical Beings & Creatures, Witchcraft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-20
Updated: 2020-09-14
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:08:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 18,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23229133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DistortedDaytime/pseuds/DistortedDaytime
Summary: Once upon a time, an apothecarist crossed paths with a carpenter.or,A fairy tale of magic, meddling, introverts, and love.
Relationships: Łukasz Piszczek/Marcel Schmelzer
Comments: 92
Kudos: 57





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi all. The world is a strange place right now, and so, to help cope, I decided to write a fairy tale. I hope it brings you some joy in these times. Stay safe!

Once upon a time, in a small village at the edge of the forest, lay an empty house. No one was quite sure who owned it or why it stayed uninhabited, but the villagers were not in the habit of asking questions about strange houses sealed with even stranger magic, and so they kept their observations to a whisper and their gazes turned away.

One day, as a chilled autumn wind blew from the east, a slight blond man appeared with a rucksack over his shoulders and two hounds at his feet. He offered no greeting and made no stop at the tavern; he walked to the empty house, murmured an incantation, and stood back as the wards unfurled. The villagers watched through their windows, half-expecting him to be burned alive lest the magic reject him, but instead the chains broke, golden sparks glimmered for the barest instant, and the house at long last welcomed the master home.

_ Three Years Later _

The bench wobbles, the dagger slips, and the well-honed silver once again slices through Marcel’s finger. He just barely refrains from cursing and mutters a healing spell in time to stop his blood from tainting the mugwort leaves he’s trying to chop. He looks down at his workbench with a baleful glare. It, like so many other things in his possession, came with the house and its dusty apothecary, and as such the bench’s age could be anything from ‘just past its prime’ to ‘ancient.’ Marcel kicks it and curses, because of course it chooses that moment to remain steady and force the blow back to his foot.

“I thought cursing was against your creed, wise witch,” calls Mats from down in the root cellar. “Such coarse language from such a learned man.”

“I thought drinking my best elderflower wine during school hours was against your creed as a teacher,” answers Marcel moodily.

“The children don’t come to school on Saturdays, so I can drink as much as I please.”

It is both petty and pointless to roll his eyes at his friend, but Marcel indulges in the gesture nonetheless. 

“Educator by day, drunkard by night. My, how the mighty shed their masks.  _ OSKAR! NO!” _

The thrice-cursed bench rattles and the mugwort falls to the floor as Oskar races through the workroom as fast as his four legs will allow, trampling the unfortunate herbs in the process. 

“Schmelle? Is everything all right up there?”

“Yes. Just glorious. Nothing is inclined to listen to me, today, not my dogs and certainly not my furniture.”

“You could just buy a new bench, you know.”

“I know, but it’s not that simple. It stands as part of the house, and houses-“

“Have opinions, yes, so you’ve mentioned,” says Mats airily, coming up from the cellar. “Very well, then have it repaired.”

“By who? You?”

“Fates, no. We do have a carpenter in town, which you’d know if you ever set foot outdoors.”

Marcel huffs. “I spend plenty of my time out of doors.”

“I mean in the  _ village _ , with people, not in the woods communing with mushrooms.”

If Marcel had a farthing for every time they’ve had this conversation, he’d be a very wealthy man indeed. “If I promise to come to the tavern tonight, will you tell me where to find this carpenter?”

“Of course. After you buy the first round.”

*

The most unfortunate thing about promising to visit the tavern is having to actually  _ visit,  _ instead of staying home to read in his favorite armchair by the hearth with Mimi and Oskar sleeping at his feet. Still, he promised, and it’s good for him to avoid total isolation.

Marcel barely gets inside the doors before Mats spots him and calls out,

“Look what the east wind blew in!”

He rolls his eyes at the attention, but Marcel can’t help a small smile when a handful of others from the village take up the cheer. Marco instantly shoves young Julian Brandt further down the bench to make room for him at their table and Mario passes over a cup of mead. Mats just salutes him with a spoonful of stew.

“I was beginning to think you’d forgotten your promise, Schmelle, and that I would have to drag you here to mingle with us common folk.”

“Speak for yourself,” says Marco. “I’m far from common.”

“You are very peculiar, it’s true,” says Mats, and Marcel laughs at Marco’s outraged squawk.

Their bickering washes over him pleasantly as he settles into a conversation with Mario and Axel. He moves over so Julian has more room and isn’t practically plastered against Marco’s side. It doesn’t stop Marco from reaching around Julian and poking him in the shoulder.

“Schmelle, why have you not come to my forge recently?”

“Because you haven’t invited me?”

Marco heaves a dramatic sigh. “We’re  _ friends. _ That means you’re free to visit me whenever you please.”

“Oh.”

“So consider this your open and ever-standing invitation,” says Marco. “I’ll be deeply offended should you choose to ignore it.”

“All right, all right. I’m sorry.”

Marcel shifts awkwardly in his seat. He is better with plants than people. If the others notice his discomfort they don’t comment and he takes the small mercy for what it is. Little by little the disquiet fades; they make a point to keep him in the conversation and Marcel remembers to join in unprompted. Finally the round comes to him, so he uses Julian’s shoulder to stand up and make his way over to the bar with their cups stacked high on an empty tray. As usual, Kloppo the innkeeper is serving the drinks, showing off his disconcertingly large teeth in the process.

“Well, well. What a fortuitous day it must be, if our own Herr Schmelzer has decided to visit.”

“Yes, well, it’s been too long,” Marcel answers, and to his surprise the words ring sincere. “How are your feet?”

“Asking about ailments is chatter for the elderly and infirm, and thanks to your agrimony syrup I am neither, so let us save the talk of sickness until we can avoid it no longer. You’re here to have fun, boy. Talk about my problems the next time I’m in your shop.”

Kloppo turns back to his kegs and refills their cups. Marcel slides some coppers across the worn wooden bar, takes the tray, and gets back to the table without spilling a single drop of mead. Instantly the hands come up, clambering for their cups, which Marcel distributes gladly.

With one exception.

Mats crosses his arms. “Stinginess does not suit you, my friend.”

“No, but asking for a promise to be kept does. Where might I find this carpenter you mentioned?”

Mats opens his mouth to answer, but Marco beats him to it. “Who, Piszczu? Oh, you’ll have no trouble.” He gives Marcel a wink and a once-over. “No trouble at all.”

“Don’t you start,” Mats chastises, punching Marco in the arm before turning back to Marcel. “He lives at the foot of the mountain near the western oaks. You’ll know his workshop when you see it, I think.”

“Why do you say that?”

“I have a feeling,” says Mats, and takes his cup with a flourish.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posting early because I'm genuinely delighted that a tiny clump of people found their way to this story. Thank you all for your sweet comments and for coming on this little journey with me; it means a heck of a lot. Stay safe and be well, dear readers <3

Although he is rightfully dubious of Mats’ instructions, Marcel sets out early on the new week’s first morning and makes his way to the western oaks in search of the carpenter. Dew still glistens upon the grass and the sun has yet to chase away evening’s chill here in the mountain’s shadow. Mimi walks faithfully at his side until at last Marcel comes to a workshop at the end of the lane. 

Much like his own shop it appears attached to the half-timbered house behind it, with a woodshed off to one side. Everywhere he looks Marcel’s keen eyes spot details; the cream-hued plaster is smooth and kept in good condition and the upper eaves are intricately carved, the efforts of someone with no small amount of pride in their work. The front door is open and the sounds of industry float out into the morning air.

Carefully Marcel peers inside. A pair of lanterns cast the room in warm golden shadows and sawdust floats through the air as a man guides a plane over a piece of timber. His shirtsleeves are rolled up to his elbows and Marcel can just spy suspenders under his leather work apron; despite the early hour he’s clearly been at his task for some time if the sweat at his temples and loose strands of short blond hair across his forehead are any indication.

It’s not until Mimi loses patience and trots inside that Marcel realizes he’s been staring. 

“Mimi! Come!”

She ignores him and goes right for the carpenter, who puts his tools aside and kneels to pet her, crooning in a language Marcel doesn’t understand. He’s trying to remember his translation spells when the man stands up and greets him in polite, warmly-accented German.

“I don’t know what brings a witch to my workshop so early in the morning, but I am grateful for it.”

Marcel studies him. The man has no magic about him, neither active nor passive, and he should not be able to sense Marcel’s own. 

“What makes you certain I’m a witch?”

“Word is that our town’s apothecarist and student of the sacred earth rarely goes anywhere without a hound or two to accompany him. I see the rumors hold true, for once.” He pets Mimi’s flank. “What can I do for you, Herr Schmelzer?”

Marcel wrinkles his nose at the formality. “Marcel. Please. Schmelle, if you wish, but please, no ceremony.”

“Very well. Then you must call me Łukasz.”

Marcel tries to imitate the sounds, and fails, if Łukasz’s answering grin is any indication. He brushes aside Marcel’s apologies easily. 

“Please. It’s nothing. The names of my homeland have troubled sharper tongues than yours. Now. What brings you here?”

“My workbench isn’t level and since replacing it may not be an option-“

“Because it belongs to your house?” Łukasz asks, and Marcel cocks his head. This man is full of surprises.

“...yes. Exactly.”

“If your problem is as simple as that, it should be no trouble to fix. I’m assuming you wish for me to accompany you now?”

“If you would, yes.”

Łukasz takes off his apron and locks his workshop, then they set out, walking in easy silence. Marcel is pleasantly surprised to find Łukasz’s presence is neither awkward nor grating; he radiates calm and a keen sense of observation about the world around him. He’s also very fine to look at, but Marcel does his best to shove that thought aside. 

He leads Łukasz inside, through his small storefront and its shelves crammed with glimmering potions, spell-preserved tinctures, glowing powders, non-magical tonics, and his lone jar of _Moosleute_ moss. The energy hums gently as the light from his creations pulses, telling him all is well. Marcel’s workshop, just through the next door, is half kitchen, half laboratory, and all chaos, with books, notes, and ingredients scattered haphazardly and his brewing cauldrons against one wall. No one else is ever in here, aside from Mimi, Oskar, and Mats. It is Marcel’s space, guarded closely, and he bristles, prepared to look at Łukasz and see judgment. He finds none.

Instead, Łukasz spots the bench in question immediately. He crouches down and compares the distance between the short leg and the others, using his fingers to measure by touch. 

“I’m surprised you haven’t shoved a wedge under here, or something similar. There’s barely anything for me to do, really, unless you want a new table leg fitted.”

Marcel makes a face. He’s all too aware his peevishness is about to rear up in a most illogical fashion, but he’s very particular about his workspace, and with too many orders and too few hours in the day, he doesn’t have the time to enchant a new piece of wood.

“Or…” Łukasz starts, “if you have a hammer, nails, and some fireplace scraps, I may have a solution? You spell all of your firewood, don’t you?”

“I-yes. Of course. To burn as bidden, only where it’s given leave. Basic spells.”

“There’s no such thing.”

Such an innocent statement shouldn’t make his ears grow warm, but so few people show any appreciation for magic, or- oh, Fates. Maybe Mats is right, and Marcel really does need to get out of the house more often. Marcel busies himself retrieving a hammer and nails as a means of distraction. He’s brimming with questions he has no right to ask and it’s an odd feeling to be so inquisitive about another person. 

“Here.”

Łukasz takes the tools and sets to work. Marcel stays to watch, curious about what he’s going to do. True, an unbalanced piece of furniture is but a simple problem, but the simplest problems can require creative solutions, and he’s eager to set what Łukasz comes up with. His hands are rough from work, yes, but also elegant, capable, and blistered, in multiple places.

“You don’t wear gloves?” he asks, and Łukasz gives him a rueful smile. 

“Not as often as I should, no. I prefer the wood grain under my fingers.” He holds up one hand, turning it over. “Clearly it takes its toll.”

“Clearly.” And then, before he can stop himself, Marcel asks, “Would you like something to fix it?”

Łukasz looks up but doesn’t answer. Marcel hurries on,

"I mean. I don’t keep it in stock, normally, but I know a wonderful recipe for workers’ salve to heal damaged hands and keep them protected? I’ll have to go foraging for some of the ingredients and the silky spearmint prefers to be picked under a half-moon which isn’t until tomorrow night, so if you can wait a few days, then yes, I can make a batch.”

“I would like that very much.”

They share a smile. Marcel feels the back of his neck heating up, so he looks away and pretends to be busy taking inventory of herb bundles drying by his east-facing window until the hammering stops. The day’s orders are simple enough; some talismans, a nausea soother for the women with child, a gentle detangling tonic for Axel’s daughters, nothing that calls for urgency or haste.

“Do you have any birch in stock?”

Marcel turns around to answer, only to bleat like a startled lamb to have Łukasz standing so close behind him. 

“I’m sorry, did I startle you?”

“You know you did,” says Marcel. 

A flash of delighted mischief passes over Łukasz’s face, though he disguises it well. “My apologies, good witch. I meant to propose a trade. A bundle of birch twigs would be fine compensation for my labor this morning.”

Marcel nods. “That’s fair. Any particular spells you’d like imbued?”

“A protection against the heat at midday,” says Łukasz, without hesitation. “I will step back and let you work.”

“Thank you,” Marcel answers drolly. His lips twitch. He should not be charmed, and yet. He gathers an even number of twigs, ties them together with twine, then lays his hands over the bundle.

“May the sun’s gaze pierce elsewhere,” Marcel intones.

A fine trail of golden sparks follow his words and sink into the branches. He nods his approval, watching closely as the last traces of his magic are absorbed. It’s a good solid spell, albeit more specific than he would have expected from a man like Łukasz. Instead of dampening Marcel’s curiosity about him, though, it only enhances it.

“Here you are. Hang it in any window of your home or workshop, although east or west-facing is preferable.”

Łukasz takes the bundle from him with a smile that’s too bright to be anything but genuine. 

“Thank you.”

“You’re very welcome. Your salve will be ready in three days, if you’d like to come back then.”

“I will.”

He waves goodbye and takes his leave. Marcel watches him go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case anyone else is interested in the plant lore that pops up in this story, Project Gutenberg has a lovely book from 1884 called Plant Lore, Legends, and Lyrics that's served as a lot of my reference points.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You all are so delightful <3 Thank you again for all the love and the sweet messages that this little story is helping brighten your days in quarantine. May this chapter find you and your loved ones safe and well.

Marcel spends the next three days following his usual brewing schedule. Luckily his recipe for Łukasz’s hand protectant is simple and contains no difficult ingredients, so he’s able to slot it in alongside the things he keeps in regular stock. He casts a gentle enhancement charm over the jar and seals it with a flourish. Marcel looks at his work, considering. Maybe it’s foolish to think Łukasz will actually come back for it. 

He’s stepped away from his counter for a moment to check his cauldron’s heat levels when the bell above the shop door tinkles merrily. 

“One moment!” he calls out, and hurries back out front to find Łukasz waiting for him, but he’s not alone. 

Next to him stands a tow-headed girl who can’t have seen more than eight summers. Marcel’s heart sinks. Of course Łukasz has a family. Still, it’s better to know now before idle fantasies take root and lead to unnecessary pain. 

“Your daughter is beautiful,” he says softly, and then, because disappointment makes him bitter, “I’m guessing she takes after her mother?”

“I don’t have a mother,” the girl chirps.

“No, but you have a father who loves you very much,” says Łukasz, and strokes her hair. “Go play, Sara. I’ll be out soon.”

She grins and darts off. Łukasz smiles after her.

“She was a foundling child. I had a dream, years ago, of an infant alone in the woods. When I woke up and went into the forest the next day there she was, just as I’d dreamed, and I’ve raised her as my own ever since.”

Marcel blinks. “It is said that fate’s magic is as strong as that of any mage. If fate brought you a child, it must have had its reasons.”

“I agree.”

Łukasz’s eyes are so blue. Marcel should look away, maybe say something to reinforce the distance between them. He does neither. Finally Łukasz raises one eyebrow at him. 

“The salve?”

“Oh. Of course.” Marcel hurries to his cupboard to retrieve Łukasz’s order, mentally chastising himself along the way. “Here you are. Apply a thin layer in the evening before retiring to bed, and your hands should heal without protest. Should you take a splinter, put a healthy dollop over the area, ask politely for its service, and then leave it until the splinter emerges. Do not let it linger, though, lest it draw out too much. Any questions?”

“When will I see you again?” asks Łukasz.

Marcel wills his cheeks not to flush. “You know where to find me, should you desire. I mean. Should you need.”

“Until then, Marcel.”

Łukasz inclines his head. There’s a hint of the smile that makes Marcel’s heart beat faster, then he’s gone.

*

As it happens, he sees Sara again before he sees Łukasz. She runs into the shop on a sunny afternoon, out of breath, with a skinned knee and her hair wild behind her.

“I need your help!” she announces matter-of-factly. “Tata says you fix things.”

Marcel ushers her over to a chair behind the counter. First thing’s first; he won’t let Sara leave without seeing to her wound lest Łukasz find out and be angered.

“Let me look at your knee, first.”

Sara gives him a look deeply reminiscent of her father. “It’s only a scratch.” She crosses her arms and moves to stand up, but Marcel does his best to appear stern and she stills with a polite, “Yes, esteemed mage.”

“I am not a mage, I am a witch, as I’m sure your father told you,” he corrects. The sly smile on her face confirms it. “A witch is very different from a mage.”

Sara hums and kicks her legs while Marcel retrieves a clean cloth and his gentlest healing potion. She doesn’t seem to be in any pain, at least, rather more put out at having to remain still. He crouches in front of her.

“Is it all right if I mend your knee?”

Sara nods. Marcel works quickly, using the cloth to wipe away the blood and dab some of the potion over her scrapes. The soft floral scent weaves through the air around them, leaving calm in its wake as the tincture does its work and knits her flesh back together.

“There. Not even a scar.”

Sara looks at her knee with a critical eye. Satisfied there’s no trick, she hops out of the chair.

“You promised to help me!”

Marcel refrains from pointing out he made no such promise. “You haven’t yet told me what I’m supposed to help with.”

“You’re magical and therefore you’re bound to help those in need,” says Sara like it’s obvious. “My climbing tree is in need.”

Marcel heaves a deep put-upon sigh so as not to laugh at the child’s conviction. “Very well. Lead on.”

Sara leads him to a copse of oaks near Łukasz’s workshop at the west end of the village. There indeed is a fallen tree limb on the ground, viciously cracked down the middle and severed from the tree. Marcel winces at the damage. Old-growth trees like this are proud and less inclined to accept a witch’s help than their younger counterparts, content instead to pass on into the life cycle. He will have to tread carefully. 

“Were you climbing when the branch fell?” Marcel asks.

Sara shakes her head. “I found it like this. Tata said not to touch it, but I LIKE this tree. It’s my favorite.”

“And where is your father?” 

“He’s delivering some new shelves to Herr Dickle.” 

“Ah, Nobby.” Marcel smiles fondly. “He is a good man. Now, come closer. I may need your help.”

Sara’s eyes go wide but she does as she’s bid. Marcel takes a deep breath and reaches out with his senses, casting them gently towards the tree and asking the wind to translate between them. The breeze picks up in acquiescence.

_ What do you seek, witch? _

_I would reattach_ _your branch,_ answers Marcel, and bows. Manners go a long way with trees.

_ It is shed and gone. I have many others and no need of a broken spare, nor do I need to be in a witch’s debt. _

_ You owe me nothing. I ask not for myself, but for the young one,  _ says Marcel, and gestures to Sara.  _ She enjoys your company. _

The tree’s remaining branches creak in recognition.  _ Ah. Yes. The child. She is a good student of the forests. Very well, witch. Do as you will.  _

“Say thank you,” Marcel whispers to Sara.

“Thank you, tree!” Sara calls, beaming.

_ She will blossom soon.  _

Marcel looks up sharply. “What?”

The wind ceases translating with an air of finality. The tree has spoken its piece. Sara looks at Marcel expectantly; he gives her a smile and moves toward the trunk. 

“Rest your hands on the bark and think of the happy times you’ve had with this tree. It will aid the healing process.”

Sara all but hugs the tree. Marcel sets to work, weaving a web of magic around the branch to lift it to its former perch, encouraging it all the while. A fine sheen of sweat coats his brow and he smiles, pleased at the exertion. The branch reconnects with a soft ‘snick,’ Sara cheers, and the wind carries a soft “thank you” for Marcel’s ears alone. He drops his hands. It is done.

He’s unable to contemplate his work, however, since Sara runs right for him and throws her arms around Marcel’s middle.

“You fixed it!”

Marcel keeps his arms up, unsure how to react. He settles for patting her head awkwardly, only to glance up and see Łukasz coming down the lane, looking far too amused at the sight before him. He says something in the Eastern tongue and Sara steps back with a huff, but her happiness is undimmed and she answers him in the same language. Marcel clears his throat, ready to take his leave, but Łukasz speaks first.

“I wasn’t expecting to see you today. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Tata look! Marcel fixed my tree!” says Sara, pointing excitedly.

Łukasz fixes her with a stern look. “Sara. You cannot ask people to work without payment. Witches don’t give their time and their magic for nothing.”

“It’s no problem,” says Marcel, and Łukasz shakes his head.

“What shall I pay you?”

“Nothing, truly. Put your coin away, Łukasz. I don’t want it.”

Łukasz’s mouth tightens but he tucks his coin purse back in his pocket. “If you won’t let me pay you, will you at least stay and eat with us?” 

An excuse is half-formed on the tip of Marcel’s tongue, but his mouth betrays him. “I would like that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like it's worth noting that [Sara is indeed real](https://bigneonglitter.tumblr.com/post/190198271962/flavenne-marco-piszczu-and-piszczus-daughter) and ADORABLE.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You all <3 I adore you. That is all.

Somehow the inside of their home is exactly what Marcel expected. It’s warm and inviting with a living space open to a small kitchen and a narrow staircase leading to the upstairs, all warm wood and inviting touches, schoolbooks perched neatly on a child-sized desk and an overflowing bookshelf. The cushions and upholstery have been patched numerous times by hands unaccustomed to stitching; it’s hardly sumptuous but it’s comfortable and little has gone to waste. The house’s heartbeat is good and strong. It’s a happy home.

“Did you build all the furniture?” asks Marcel.

“Most of it, yes.” Łukasz nods to the desk. “It will adjust and grow with her so Sara can study as long as she wishes.”

As fearless as ever, Sara grabs Marcel’s hand and pulls him over to the two chairs huddled in one corner. “Come look at my books!”

It never fails to amaze him how much easier it can be to talk to children instead of adults. Sara says what she means and never once does Marcel have to trouble himself searching for an ulterior motive. She’s happy and intelligent, reading to him to pass the time while Łukasz is in the tiny kitchen preparing their meal. Occasionally he calls out questions to her; Sara answers seamlessly before switching back to their common language.

“That is what you speak when you’re alone?” Marcel asks, and she nods.

“Mhmm. It’s the language of Tata’s home.”

“Has he ever taken you there?”

Sara huffs and blows the hair out of her face. “No. He says we can’t go until I’m older.”

“Oh? And why is that?”

“I don’t know!” She rolls her eyes. “He won’t tell me.” 

“I’m sure your father has his reasons,” says Marcel. He bites his lip and tries not to look too curious while Łukasz cooks, but he keeps sneaking glances and gets caught more than once.

Eventually they settle at the table with their meal. It’s simple but hearty fare, soup, cheese, some good dark bread, fresh vegetables tossed together. Marcel tucks in eagerly.

“You eat like you’ve gone years without a home-cooked meal,” comments Łukasz.

Marcel glances down at his plate. “I have an agreement with Frau Klopp. I get leftovers from the tavern delivered every morning, so yes, you could say it has been some time since I’ve had fresh food.”

Both Piszczeks look at him with identical expressions of horror. Without breaking eye contact Łukasz switches back into the Eastern tongue and says something to Sara. She answers an affirmative, nodding eagerly.

“It’s settled,” says Łukasz. “From now on you take your evening meals with us.”

Marcel’s mouth drops open. “No.”

“Why not? Don’t you like us?” Sara asks, and widens her eyes just a touch too much to look completely naive. She’s well aware of her own charm and Marcel would be impressed if it wasn’t being used against him.

“I do not take advantage of kindness,” he says, and keeps his eyes on the table to avoid both sets of too-earnest blue eyes. “I thank you for the thought, but there’s no need, really.”

“How about this. If you bring me Frau Klopp’s leftovers and we all share them along with whatever I make, will that ease your fears of somehow overstepping?” Łukasz proposes.

Marcel makes a face. It sounds wonderful, but they’ll tire of him, surely, and he’d rather not face that pain. “I…”

“You can bring Mimi and Oskar with you. Sarusia would love to play with them, I’m sure.”

“Dirty tricks to play on my heartstrings. I see where Sara learned it from.”

Łukasz’s smile is nothing short of pure innocence. “I don’t know what you could possibly be speaking of. If you really object, I’ll of course accept your refusal, but…” he pauses, and puts his hands over Sara’s ears, “if I might be honest, I like your company. As much as I love and cherish my daughter, it’s nice to talk to someone older than eight summers.”

Marcel sighs. “If it’s what you truly wish…”

“It is!” says Sara, wriggling free of her father’s grip. “But you have to come. I will fetch you if you don’t.”

“A very stern threat indeed,” says Marcel, and Łukasz laughs.

“You have no idea.”

*

Marcel humors them for five whole days. On the sixth day he remains at home, allowing himself only a single glance out the window down the road. It is better this way; surely Łukasz has tired of his company by now and Sara is young enough to remain untroubled by adult problems. 

Although he has no complaints about Frau Klopp’s cooking, the day-old bread and last night’s stew doesn’t appeal to him like it once did. Marcel sets the thought aside without examining it too closely. Food is food and the feeling will pass. Normalcy will continue to reassert itself, even if the five days of company were pleasant.

He barely gets to work on lighting a fire in his stove before someone starts pounding on his front door. Mimi and Oskar run into the hallway, barking, but the knocking continues uninterrupted. 

Marcel opens the door just enough to keep the dogs inside, half-expecting Mats, or Marco, but no, instead he finds Sara on the threshold, standing tall with her arms folded over her chest.

“You didn’t come!” she says in a disappointed voice. “You promised you would eat with us.”

“You have a habit of inventing my promises,” says Marcel. 

“Does that mean you will not come?”

For the first time in all of their encounters Marcel hears a note of genuine doubt in her voice. For all of her precociousness and energy, it seems she has hidden her sensitivity until now, and Marcel could kick himself for not seeing it sooner. Youth or not, Sara is as multifaceted as the rest of them, and he should have afforded her the same respect.

Oskar wiggles past his legs and goes right for her, his whole body wriggling in excitement as Sara pets him. Marcel sighs and steps aside to let Mimi join in. Sara’s laughter turns into a shriek when the dogs lick over her open mouth, but she keeps petting them and they soak up her affection.

It is a little thing, but if it brings joy to others…

“Let me get my cloak.”

*

They must make quite a sight traipsing through their village’s narrow lanes, a man, a skipping girl, and two eager hounds, all heading west towards the house at the foot of the mountains. Much to Marcel’s dismay, Mats is sitting outside with a steaming mug of tea in one hand and a book in the other; if the Fates are kind they’ll be able to pass by without being seen but no, he looks up from his reading, glances between them, and meets Marcel’s glare with a sly grin. 

“Young Sara, where are you going with our honored witch?”

“To take our evening meal, Herr Hummels,” she replies dutifully.

“Good. Give my best to your father.”

“Yes, Herr Hummels!”

They bid him farewell and continue on their way, with Marcel hiding the groan threatening to spill from his throat. Somehow it never occurred to him that Sara would be one of Mats’ students; he should have foreseen this with but one school in their small village and yet his focus has been elsewhere. He is never going to hear the end of this.

The front door is open when they arrive at their destination and Marcel catches the familiar aromas of cooking meat and smoke from the fire. He’s almost embarrassed to go inside, but Sara takes his hand, and thus, takes the option from him. She calls out a greeting and Łukasz answers from his place at the chopping board. 

It’s nothing Marcel hasn’t seen for the past five nights, but he finds himself struck nonetheless. Łukasz’s face is a little flushed, his sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, and he’s slicing boiled eggs with calm, efficient hands. The long-forgotten hollow in Marcel’s chest twists to life again, as it is wont to do lately.

“Your daughter is a hellion,” he greets, in lieu of an apology for his tardiness.

Łukasz just laughs. “Believe me, I am aware. What did she threaten you with?”

“The shame of a broken promise and sorrows beyond measure.”

“What did you say about me?” Sara pipes up from her place on the floor with Mimi and Oskar. 

“Nothing, _żabka._ Go wash your hands.”

Sara looks like she doesn’t believe him, but she gets up and heads to the bucket of clean water outside and does as she’s told with the hounds at her heels.

“First you steal my supper time, now Sara is stealing my hounds’ affection.” grouses Marcel good-naturedly. “What’s next?”

“Truly your life is brimming with hardship,” Łukasz answers. “Come. Your tea is getting cold.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not a linguist by any stretch so if I got anything wrong with Polish diminutives or endearments, by all means let me know!


	5. Chapter 5

After dinner Łukasz accompanies Marcel partway down the road back home, only far enough to keep his own house in sight. The windows lining either side of the lane are warm with candlelight as the village begins its descent towards rest. 

“If you wish for an evening alone, Sara will not be around tomorrow to foist our company on you,” Łukasz starts, and Marcel cocks his head. 

“Oh?”

“Maï-Li and Evy invited her to visit, so she will be at the Witsels’ until some time the day after, maybe longer. They’re very close.”

“Oh! I mean, good, friends are good for children,” says Marcel, wincing internally at his own inanity. What does one say to parents? “I can use the time to go foraging.” 

Łukasz nods. “Tomorrow is a full moon, is it not?”

“Provided the clouds opt not to cover it, yes. My stores are running low on some night blooms and it would be best not to waste the opportunity.”

“Then I will see you in two days?”

“Yes. Unless…” Marcel hesitates. “Would you…that is, I expect you value your time as well, but if you find yourself in want of companionship and have any interest in joining me in the forest, I would not say no.”

Perhaps it’s a mark of all the time they’ve spent together recently that Łukasz catches the meaning immediately. 

“Shall I bring anything special?”

“Just yourself will serve, I think,” says Marcel, smiling a little. “Come to my house once the sun has set. I will provide everything we need.”

*

True to his word Łukasz arrives just after dark the next evening. He’s wearing his usual trousers and boots, but also a dark woolen shirt that shows his broad shoulders. The very top button is unfastened and Marcel can see just a hint of his throat before he turns away to look elsewhere. 

“I’ve packed you some tools and a foraging bag.” He hands Łukasz a silver knife and a cloth bag to store his gatherings, “but most importantly, you’ll need this, for when we get into the denser woods undercover of the night.”

Marcel holds up a pair of small bottles so Łukasz can see the sprites dwelling within. The tiny beings peer at him and offer a polite bow; to Marcel’s pleasure Łukasz bows back and the sprites glow their satisfaction. Yes, this will be a good arrangement. 

“These two have agreed to assist us tonight. Take whichever one you wish.”

Łukasz takes the bottle on the left and goes to hang it from his belt, but Marcel catches him just in time.

“No, no. It has to go around your neck, or in a breast pocket. The sprites enjoy our warmth and the heart is their best source.”

“They won’t drain us?”

“No. It’s a fair exchange, light for energy, and besides, they’re too small to be harmful to humans even if they were inclined to be.”

The sprite seems to twinkle in agreement. Łukasz fastens the chain around his neck. “Am I acceptable, honored witch?”

“You’re sufficient.”

Łukasz elbows him lightly in the ribs and they set off for the forests with the hounds in tow. The eastern woods near Marcel’s home are denser than those at Łukasz’s end of the village and as such the things that grow here require less light, making it an excellent space to gather fungi as well as plants.

“You have never told me why you favor plants,” says Łukasz, once they’re inside the wood.

Marcel raises an eyebrow at him. “And you have never told me why you favor carpentry.”

“Fair enough.”

Łukasz doesn’t press him and he asks no more questions as they walk. He hums to himself and he doesn’t seem put out at Marcel’s reluctance to answer, and that, in itself, is enough.

“It is not entirely the plants,” Marcel starts softly.

“No?”

“No. I have always...” he gestures with one hand, searching for the words. “The home is always where my magic has felt strongest, and since nature is home to us all, tending plants and using them to care for people is where I feel at peace.”

“Because you’re honoring your home in the process?” asks Łukasz, and Marcel’s nods.

“Yes. Exactly.”

He has never put it into words quite so eloquently before, let alone to another person. The feeling is not unpleasant.

“Come, then. Why carpentry?”

“Family trade, of sorts. My father had a mill back in our village, so my brother and I spent much of our youths learning the ways of wood.”

“It suits you,” Marcel tells him, and means it. “You must stay aware of your joints as you work, though, so you can have many more years without pain.”

“That’s why I have you, yes? To make me something if I ever come to harm.”

“Of course I will.”

Łukasz’s shoulder brushes his as they walk. Marcel doesn’t pull away.

*

The hours in the forest pass well. Marcel manages a nice haul of chickweed, evening primrose, ferns, yarrow, and some good soft moss for poultices. His night-blooming phlox patch isn’t cultivating as well as he’d hoped; another attempt at an herb garden in his tiny backyard seems inevitable since it should propagate nicely there while giving him space for other things. 

They come out of the woods as the moon reaches its peak in the sky, shining bright cold light down upon them. Marcel stops walking for a moment, closes his eyes, and breathes in the night. The green-tinged moisture cleanses and renews him, the dirt under his fingernails from the harvest grounds him, and the moon’s faithful presence reassures him. He is sound, at one with his magic as he is meant to be.

He does not expect to open his eyes and find Łukasz looking at him quite so intently. If he didn’t know better, Marcel would have thought there was warmth in that gaze, but it’s gone before he can re-examine it and the suspicion passes.

“You are welcome to borrow one of my storage jars for all of your mushrooms,” Marcel tells him after they make the short trek back toward his humble home. “Or leave them in my root cellar, if you wish. My spells regulate the moisture levels so they will not rot.”

“Mm, maybe. Is that what you do after a night in the woods? Retire to your cellar?”

“Of course. Harvesting is only half the work. Now I must separate the species, choose how I wish to store them, make a plan for processing…”

“Would you like some help?”

Marcel nudges him. “You have not tired of me yet?”

“No.”

He looks down, pleased. “Well. If you wish, then yes, I would appreciate the help.”

With a soft gesture Marcel releases the wards on his home and they go inside, through the storefront and down into the cellar. He removes the sprite jar from around his neck and unseals the lid, allowing the creature to go where it wills now that their covenant is complete. With an incline of its tiny head it bids Marcel goodbye and hovers over to Łukasz, waiting for its companion. The second joins it presently; they flit off in a gentle trail of sparks that land over the harvested plants in a tacit blessing. 

Marcel begins stripping the foliage from the yarrow and tying it into bundles for drying, offering soft instruction to Łukasz as he goes. 

“Cut the ferns right at their base and strip their leaves as gently as you can. The leaves need to be pressed...do you see the large book over there under the potato basket?”

Łukasz nods over to the thick tome in the corner. “The one without a title?”

“Yes. Lay the leaves between the pages, please, then close the book. They’ll be ready in several weeks.”

With Łukasz’s aid the work passes quickly. Marcel is pleased with the result, albeit perplexed at himself for being so forthright throughout their time together. He is well aware he enjoys Łukasz’s company, but he was not prepared for the ease of telling him more and more about himself, or learning about Łukasz in return. Maybe it’s the comfort that leads him to ask,

“May I offer you a drink before you leave? Mats has finished this season’s elderflower wine, I’m afraid, but I do have some apple cider to last until the brewing season.”

They take their seats at the small table in the root cellar. The night’s candles are beginning to burn low, lengthening the shadows all around them. Łukasz leans back in his seat, looking for all the world as if he spends most evenings down here without a care in the world. He fits here, in this oft-hidden piece of Marcel’s life.

“I never would have imagined a man such as yourself would want anything to do with one such as I,” Marcel muses.

“And why is that?”

Truth be told, Marcel doesn’t have an answer. He changes the subject instead. “Why have you never taken a wife? It’s no easy task to rear a child alone.”

Łukasz stares down into his cup. “Because it would be unfair to marry someone solely to be a provider for my child. If I ever do marry, it will be for love and nothing else, because I want Sara to see what true affection looks like, and to know that she never has to settle for less.”

He shakes off whatever melancholy took him for a moment and looks at Marcel. “Why not you? An earnest man with a good heart and a warm hearth, surely the thought occurred.”

“A wife should have the devotion of her husband.” Marcel steadies himself for the truth. It’s less burdensome, now that he’s no longer a green boy, but it’s not without consequence. “That is not something I can give to a woman.”

He chances a look up. Łukasz doesn’t look upset or disgusted. Instead he looks pensive. 

“I had a lover, when I first became a father,” he says, after a moment. 

“What happened?”

“He chose a different path.”

Marcel’s breath catches, but he hides it as best as he can. “I will not lie and say I understand, but...” He flounders for the right words. “But I will say you’re not alone.”

The candlelight is soft across Łukasz’s features. “Nor are you.”


	6. Chapter 6

Marco stops in the next day with a small bag and a crooked grin that Marcel doesn’t trust for a moment.

“Salutations, wise witch, I come to throw myself at your feet and ask for a small favor. A trifle of a favor. The most miniscule-“

“What do you want, Marco?” Marcel cuts him off, trying not to laugh. 

“I’m hurt, Schmelle. Truly hurt, that your opinion of me is so low that I cannot even call on a dear friend without having my motives questioned.”

“You just told me you came to ask me for a favor!”

Marcel raises one eyebrow, waiting. Marco holds his wounded look for all of five seconds before his face drops.

“I finished Piszczu’s door hinges. Won’t you deliver them for me?”

He tosses his bag on the counter with a robust metallic _ clank. _ Marcel gives him an incredulous look. “You’re incapable of doing it yourself?”

“I’m a very busy man,” Marco answers. “And since I’m told you’ve been calling on the Piszczek household quite often recently, it shouldn’t be difficult for you.”

Mats. Of course Mats has been talking, to Marco who then talks to Mario, who talks to everyone else. No wonder everyone who’s come to the shop recently has been fit to bursting with knowing smiles and overly familiar questions.

Marcel huffs, but he takes the bag as bidden. “Very well. If only to relieve you of such a grievous burden.”

“Thank you, my friend. I knew I could count on you.” Marco reaches over the counter and claps him on the shoulder. “Truly I’m happy for you both.”

“I- no, Marco, it’s not-“ Marcel’s cheeks heat. “We are friends. Nothing more.”

“Are you sure?”

The treacherous want flashes through him, brief yet powerful. “I am sure.”

“There is no shame in finding a heart’s home again, Marcel. Nuri has been gone for two summers, now,” says Marco, pensive.

“I think I’m more aware of that than most.”

Marcel forces himself to hold Marco’s gaze. Many forget how much pain that easy smile has endured, but Marcel has known Marco for many years, long enough to see past his friend’s veneers.

“Truly, Łukasz is a friend and I am glad for it. That is all I can ask for.”

“You may be surprised,” answers Marco.

He smiles again, and takes his leave with a wave goodbye, leaving Marcel with far more questions than answers.

*

By evening Marcel is still so unsettled that he cannot bring himself to make his way to Łukasz’s. With a heavy heart he writes a vague excuse onto a scrap of paper, attaches it to Oskar’s neck with Marco’s hinges, and sends the hound off to deliver his message.

It is not entirely a falsehood to claim he does not feel well. Marcel retreats to his workshop and sets himself to one of his least favorite tasks, distilling turpentine. He’s collected enough resin from the forests over the past few weeks and he has put it off long enough. He opens his box of resin and wrinkles his nose at the stringent odor it gives off. It will all be worth it once the distillation is complete and the result is safely mixed into his best chest rub and breathing aids. 

His still is a simple thing of copper, glass pipes, and more than a few safety spells imbued into every nook and cranny. The process itself is easy enough, but turpentine is dangerous, too prone to flame to ever be considered truly safe for storage. With the appropriate amount of water added, the only thing that remains is to wait and remain vigilant in case the worst should happen. 

Midway though the process Oskar returns from his errand and trots right to Marcel. A strip of cheery red and white cloth somehow made its way around his neck, and is that...yes, it is. There’s a small parcel attached to Oskar’s makeshift collar. Cocking his head, Marcel unties it. There’s no message inside, but there is a chunk of fresh bread and strangely enough, a sprig of flowering vervain. How peculiar. 

Marcel turns the plant over in his fingers. The small purple blooms are soft against his skin and the warm citrusy scent is pleasant, but the sprig’s presence itself is odd. It would not be unlike Sara to include such a thing, but she’s never shown any inclination towards such a specific choice of herb and the stem is neatly cut at an angle, not pulled with a child’s haste. 

That leaves Łukasz, which is even more troublesome to consider. Surely he was just being thoughtful, as Marcel knows is his way, unaware of the vervain’s meaning. 

A coincidence. Yes. A coincidence. There’s probably a patch of it growing near his woodshed. 

_ Unless,  _ whispers the traitorous voice in the back of Marcel’s head. 

He drops his chin to his chest with a sigh. He meant every word to Marco about his gladness for Łukasz’s friendship, but that gratitude has not stopped his troublesome daydreams of something more. If by some distant chance Łukasz is seeking to communicate with him in this method, Marcel would be a fool not to reciprocate. If the vervain is naught but a mere coincidence, Łukasz will be none the wiser to Marcel’s response and nothing between them has to change. 

Marcel hides his face against Oskar’s side for a moment, breathing in the warm animal scent of his companion. 32 summers of life and the Fates have not yet deigned to make feelings any simpler. Very well, then.

*

In the end, Marcel settles on the safest option he can think of, in part to keep his dignity intact and in part because the hawthorn trees nearby are beginning to blossom. He brings a pair of branches to dinner the following evening, neatly watered and held in one of his spare vases. 

“Here,” says Marcel, and thrusts them at Łukasz before he can change his mind. “I thought they might look nice on your table.”

Łukasz looks down at the flowers, then back at Marcel, considering him. “I think they will. I hope they were not difficult to get?”   


Marcel gulps at his word choice. Hope, yes, almost more hope than he can stand. “Not at all. Just a few early blooms the tree said it wouldn’t miss.”

Their fingers brush across the crockery when Łukasz reaches to take the vase. Marcel’s heart stutters in his chest but he doesn’t pull away. He hasn’t felt like this in so long-

“Marcel!”

They step back as one when Sara comes in from outside. She glances between them and hesitates, clearly aware she interrupted something, but she takes Marcel’s hand instead of commenting.

“Do you want to see the water plants I found today?” she asks tentatively.

He nods. “Show me.”

Marcel lets her guide him away, but when he looks back Łukasz is watching them with a look of such raw fondness that it takes Marcel’s breath away. He waits for Łukasz to school his features back to normal, and yet he does not. Instead he nods and smiles gently.

“Go. I will start dinner.”

*

To Marcel’s surprise, Sara does not drop his hand as she leads him to the river on the outskirts of their village. 

“Are water plants good for your potions, Marcel?” she asks as they walk.

“Some are, yes. They are best in summer, though, when they grow well from the sun’s brightest light.”

“Will you show me which ones are useful?”

He nods, quietly pleased at the request. “Of course I will.”

The river flows gently in the late-afternoon sunshine and the leaves rustle in soft melody. Sara finally lets go of Marcel’s hand to remove her shoes, roll up her leggings, and wade into the water. Something shimmers just around the riverbend a few yards away and Marcel’s senses tingle in awareness.

“Stay here,” he tells Sara. “I’ll be right back.”

Casting out a silent inquiry, Marcel goes to investigate the rocky outcrop. He has heard rumors of foreign water creatures being imported into the rivers by nobles with too much money and not enough sense; gossip speaks of mermaids in the north and even a seal-being within the southern borders, but he has never looked beyond a cursory glance for anything near their village’s small waterways. No being that requires a larger body of water would willingly make a home here, and yet today something answers his magic’s call. It feels unlike anything Marcel has ever encountered; instead of the green forests and rich soil of his homeland he feels grey skies and frigid waters, no less powerful or important than what he’s accustomed to, just different. 

Splashing and a happy gasp draw his attention back to Sara. Marcel scans the rocks once more, then turns around to a sight that nearly makes his heart stop.

There, emerging from the water, is a sleek black horse, head bowing as Sara reaches out to stroke its dripping mane. 

“SARA! NO!” 

“What?”

He’s running before he registers the motion, watching as if from a nightmare as her small hand reaches out to touch the creature’s neck. She’s going to be stuck fast to its coat, lured in and dragged under the water to be devoured.

A repelling spell is on the tip of Marcel’s tongue and the energy is half-coiled around him, ready to strike, but to his utter shock the creature makes no overture towards attack. Ignoring Marcel entirely, it noses at Sara’s pockets while she giggles and pets its flank.

He drops the spell. Even when he factors in the creature being far from home, nothing in Marcel’s studies or discussions has ever mentioned a water-horse of the Scotian Isles taking to a human being, let alone to a child. The creatures favor children as  _ food,  _ not as, as friends, and yet the evidence is unfolding before his very eyes. 

It is cognizant of him and his misgivings, of that much Marcel is certain. He will have to tread carefully. Should anything happen to Sara…

“We’re going to be late for dinner,” he says in the calmest voice he can muster. “You can show me your water plants tomorrow.”

Tomorrow, after he returns here later this evening to ward the river. The water-horse is friendly now, but like all wild animals it remains a creature of instinct, and Marcel will not sit idly by and risk anyone coming to harm while he devises a plan to get it back to its homeland. 

Sara shrugs and nods; the water-horse bunts her gently with its muzzle and retreats back into the river. She waves a farewell before coming back to Marcel’s side as if nothing peculiar has happened.

“Tata doesn’t know about my friend,” she says, scuffing the ground with one foot.

“The water-horse?”

Sara nods. “Are you going to tell him?”

“It is always a horse, yes? Never a man, or a being you don’t recognize?”

“No. Just a horse.”

Marcel reaches for her hand without thinking, and Sara takes it easily. “Then no, I will not tell him. But, if it ever changes form, or tries to hurt you or take you under the water, you must run away as fast as you can, to him or to me, and tell us everything. Do you promise?”

“I promise,” she says, wide-eyed and solemn.

*

Łukasz is waiting for them in the doorway of the Piszczek home when they return. 

“All is well?”

“All is well,” answers Marcel, as Sara lets go of his hand and darts ahead.

“Good. Come, our meal is ready.”

Marcel nods, cheeks warm, and goes into the house. He does not miss the gentle pressure of a hand at his back, guiding him inside. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Delving a bit into the German flower language here (shoutout again to the wonderful [Plant Lore, Legends, and Lyrics](https://www.gutenberg.org/files/44638/44638-h/44638-h.htm#chapter-13) that's my reference point), the vervain signifies affection, while the hawthorn signifies hope. 
> 
> Also, Sara's watery friend is very much a Kelpie, captured from its home in Scotland and brought to the continent. I didn't mean to throw in a moral about exotic species, but here we are.


	7. Chapter 7

The week passes gently and without incident. Marcel’s magic warms with the beckoning summer; he takes to wearing shorter sleeves and keeping the shop windows open to let the fresh air flow in and out. To his dismay, the changing season makes it that much more difficult to ignore his changing heart. Emotions have crept in against all of Marcel’s careful safeguards and expectations and he can no longer deny the truth of his feelings. 

Early one Saturday afternoon, after ensuring the lit cauldrons are all simmering and their respective timer charms are set, Marcel locks his shop and sets off to the schoolhouse to find Mats. As expected, his friend sits at the head of his empty classroom, marking assignments with the special dip pen Marco made for him. Mats looks up, smiling, but his expression turns solemn when he sees Marcel. 

“Schmelle? Are you well?”

Marcel raises one shoulder. “I don’t believe so.”

“Would you like to talk about it?”

“I...don’t believe so, no.”

“Right.” Mats gestures to the stack of papers next to him. “I have to finish these, then we can go to the tavern and continue to not talk about what ails you, if you like?”

“Yes. I would like that.”

Mats nods once and continues his marking, pausing only to share some of the students’ more amusing answers. Marecel enjoys the easy quiet and humor; just the presence of another person is soothing in the way that tells him yes, seeking company was the right choice. 

Once Mats’s work is completed they walk to the tavern, say hello to Kloppo, and take a table in the far corner away from the other patrons. Kloppo comes over with two cups of mead and they talk about nothing as they drink; Mats enlightens Marcel to all the recent village gossip and his news from outside their borders. There is much for him to discuss and little for Marcel to contribute, but he can see Mats leaving the opportunities open for him to speak if he wishes. 

Instead, Marcel listens to a missive from one Thomas Müller, a longtime friend of Mats in Bavaria who keeps threatening to visit. Mats’s dramatic reading of Thomas’s letter makes Marcel laugh until his stomach aches. 

“I would ask if you wanted to eat with me,” says Mats once they’ve both calmed down, “but I know your evening meal times are reserved.”

Marcel braces himself, but when neither comment nor interrogation is forthcoming, he nods. 

“Good. That means you’re communing with living things that don’t spring from the dirt. About time, really”

“I will poison you,” says Marcel, trying not to smile.

Mats just waves him off. “Yes, yes, I know, a mysterious pox, maybe a boil in the center of my face.”

“Please. Give me the credit I’m due. The center of your face is too easy.”

“Not my-” Mats gestures to the front of his trousers. “Your deviousness knows no bounds, witch. Which is, of course, why our friendship endures.”

They leave the tavern together; Marcel turns to the butcher while Mats turns back towards the schoolhouse, but Marcel doesn’t let his friend go without a soft “thank you.”

Mats winks at him. “Any time. You know that.”

And Marcel does. He truly does.

*

The rest of the day passes just as Marcel intends. His time with Mats eased enough of his tension that he is once again looking forward to meeting Sara at the riverbanks for an experiment of sorts. It is not the water-horse’s fault that it currently dwells far from home, and since Marcel’s own wards keep it from seeking food naturally, it seems cruel to leave the beast to starve. 

Thus, a trial with beef shins. 

“Is he going to like these?” Sara asks, once she’s standing in the shallows with the meat in her hands.

Marcel, standing a slight distance away, shrugs. “If it- if  _ he _ does not, then we keep trying until we find something he does enjoy. Everyone has a favorite food, even water-horses.”

He’s barely finished speaking when the beast emerges. It sniffs the air, great nostrils flaring eagerly, and eats the offering from Sara’s palms with a delicacy Marcel never would have expected. Sara giggles a little as its lips pass over her skin, but she holds still and lets it eat, unbothered by the crunching bones and red-hued foam bubbling at the corner of the beast’s mouth. She meets Marcel’s gaze with a grin and he nods his approval. 

“We will return, friend,” Marcel promises, making eye contact with the water-horse. Its eyes are as dark as the sea and just as unfathomable, but he can feel its understanding. 

With a soft snort and some last nuzzles for Sara, the beast slides back into the water as soundlessly as it had come. She waves goodbye, then comes to stand at Marcel’s side. 

“What are we doing now?”

Marcel taps his chin and pretends to consider. It is getting easier to spend time with her outside of Łukasz’s company and his fear of upsetting her beyond forgiveness continues to dissipate.

“I must go check my cauldrons and see to the brewing progress, and then I must retreat to my root cellar and count every single fern leaf and balsam needle and arrange them in piles. Would you like to come help me?”

Sara’s mouth twitches, as if she wants to laugh but is unsure if he’s teasing. “No!”

“Alas. Very well then, if your father asks, tell him I will come for dinner before the sun sets.”

She skips down the lane back towards the western oaks, braid bouncing with every step.

*

This time when Marcel goes to check his cauldrons, it is with a much lighter bearing. He is still unsure how to begin the courting process, but there is a comfort in knowing the decision doesn’t have to be made today, and that his friends will support it. As much as he worries about his oddities burdening them, they continue to treat his shyness not as an irritation, but as something to be accepted with the rest of him. 

Even dinner is more pleasant this evening. As careful as Marcel has been to avoid looking at Łukasz as a person of some desire, tonight he lets his gaze be honest. The small touches they share turn electric and promising; in the back of his mind Marcel is fluttering with nerves, terrified of violating their unspoken boundaries, yet Łukasz meets him at every juncture, steady and welcoming. 

Tonight, as with many nights recently, Łukasz walks him part of the way home, stopping before his own house vanishes from view. 

“Marcel, I…”

“What?”

Heart racing, Marcel watches as Łukasz runs a hand through his hair. There’s an unfamiliar look in his eyes, something determined yet unsure. He steps closer, right into Marcel’s space, inclining his head and for a moment Marcel swears to the Fates he’s about to be kissed. His eyes slide closed, the anticipation is liquid-hot in his belly, but Łukasz moves back and the promise remains unfulfilled. 

“Until tomorrow,” says Łukasz after a long moment, and turns away. 

*

Marcel toys with going straight to bed when he arrives home, but he knows from long experience that sleep will be elusive tonight, so he settles in his favorite chair to read instead. He gets several chapters deep into a novel he’s read before, only to pause when Mimi and Oskar run through the room and out to the shop, pawing and whining at the front door. 

Marcel frowns. Nothing has triggered his wards and all seems well, but the hounds ignore his call and their whining only intensifies, so he marks his place in his book and goes to investigate. He opens the door to nothing and is about to turn away when he notices movement near the bushes. There, hiding in the darkness and covering her face with her hands, is Sara.

With a gasp Marcel hurries outside. “Sara? Why are you here?”

She lifts her tear-streaked face to meet his worried gaze. “Tata…”

Marcel fights to keep his voice even and asks, “Is he all right?” 

“I did something wrong,” she whispers. 

“Surely nothing is so wrong that it cannot be fixed. Please, tell me, so that I may help.”

Lip quivering, Sara holds up one small hand. She makes a fist, then extends her fingers in one swift motion, leaving a small ball of flame hovering in its wake.

“Oh,” breathes Marcel. “Oh, Sara…”

“I showed him, and he, he said I can’t show anyone,” she says in a rush as tears pour down her face. “And then he got angry when I asked...why I...why I can’t…”

Something cold and unpleasant sinks into Marcel’s stomach. If Łukasz cannot accept Sara’s magic, he is far from the man Marcel believed him to be and even further from the man his heart has chosen. He pushes his own burgeoning sorrow aside and focuses on Sara instead, taking her hand and leading her inside to his shop where the hounds await. Sara goes right to them, throwing her arms around their necks. 

Marcel joins them on the floor. He says nothing, but he casts his magic out, and for the first time Sara’s answers back. It is but a fledgling of power, but the golden scarlet energy twists and shines in response, dancing like a flame. Her wet eyes grow wide.

“Is that...me?”

Marcel nods. “How does it feel?”

Sara doesn’t respond. Instead she shakes her head and crawls into his lap. “I don’t want it, if it’s…” she trails off with a sniffle. 

“Your magic is beautiful, dear girl, and there is nothing wrong with you, do you understand? Nothing.”

“But Tata said-”

“He is wrong,” Marcel cuts her off gently but firmly. “He is right on many things, but on this he is wrong.”

Sara’s tears start again, so Marcel holds her close and rubs her back, heart aching for her pain. He would take it all, if he could, and bear it in her stead. They stay like that, on the shop floor, with Mimi and Oskar nearby while Marcel hums the few lullabies he knows. Eventually Sara’s breathing begins to even out, but she makes no move to climb out of his lap, so Marcel gets carefully to his feet, keeping her in his arms. 

“Come. There are warmer places than the floor.”

He carries Sara through into his living area and lays her gently on the couch, with a pillow under her head and his softest blanket tucked up to her chin. Immediately the hounds jump up to lie close and bracket her in. Marcel waits until Sara’s breathing is even with sleep, then he goes to his desk for a small square of green paper. As soon as the paper meets his skin its edges begin to roll and take shape, weaving on his palm until the square has transformed itself into a messenger vine.

Carefully, Marcel takes it over to the wall and holds the vine close so it can find purchase on the bricks. 

“There is a house at the foot of the mountains near the western oaks,” he murmurs. “Please tell the master that his daughter is here, and that she is safe.”

The vine’s leaves emerge and a quick pulse of light passes through its tendrils. There is nothing to do now but wait. 

*

Marcel barely has to wait five minutes before his ears catch the sounds of urgent footsteps growing closer. He goes out onto his front step, and sure enough Łukasz is running down the lane. His face is flushed from the exertion and he looks as distressed as Sara had earlier, but Marcel also notices exhaustion etched into his features as he comes to a stop in front of the house.

“She is well?”

Marcel disregards the question. “She is sleeping now, but I’ll take you to her.”

He can’t quite meet Łukasz’s eyes. Not now, maybe never again, after tonight. Instead he turns and retreats back into his home, not looking to see if Łukasz follows him. Regardless of his own tangled emotions, he will do this for Sara. She deserves nothing less, and so he stops at the entrance of his living area and turns around to face Łukasz before letting him inside.

“Sara is not dangerous. She is a  _ child,  _ and she has nothing to be ashamed of.”

Łukasz’s mouth thins for a moment, but he nods. “I know. Please, I need to know she’s all right.”

Marcel steps aside. Łukasz is across the room in a few strides, crouching beside the couch, trying to smooth his daughter’s hair and placate the growling hounds. To his credit Łukasz doesn’t move away when they bear their teeth; instead he speaks softly to Sara until she stirs. 

“Sarusia?”

She opens wide eyes, blinking, and her lip begins to quiver. Instantly Łukasz is speaking to her in the Eastern tongue; whatever he’s saying it makes Sara start crying again and Marcel is about to intervene when she flings the blanket off and all but dives into her father’s arms. Łukasz holds her tightly, murmuring one word over and over. 

Marcel looks away. It feels intrusive to witness such an intimate family moment. He waits at the doorway, though, lest he’s needed. Eventually Sara stops crying and nestles close to Łukasz with her arms around his neck; he stands in one easy motion and steadies her, carrying her much like must have done in summers past. 

Łukasz stops in the doorway next to Marcel. “Thank you, for what you did tonight.”

Marcel inclines his head, still unable to make eye contact. Sara reaches out with one tired hand and grabs his shirt. Łukasz says something to her but she shakes her head and hangs on. He sighs.

“I am sorry, but if you don’t mind coming with us? Just until she goes to sleep.”

“If it will make her feel better, then yes. Of course.”

Marcel tries not to notice the grateful smile that earns him. His heart hurts and he is so, so tired. 

None of them speak on the walk back to the Piszczek house. Łukasz shifts Sara to one hip to unlock the door and let them inside. As one they ascend the stairs to Sara’s bedroom; she goes easily under the quilt, eyes closing almost as soon as her head hits the pillow. Łukasz bends down and kisses her cheek. Marcel hesitates, but he reaches down to smooth her hair away from her face. With a soft flick of his fingers he extinguishes the lamp at her bedside and moves to leave, but Łukasz is right behind him, back down the stairs, catching him before he can get to the front door and make his retreat.

“You must think ill of me now, for reacting so poorly at learning my daughter is a witch,” says Łukasz softly.

Marcel closes his eyes and rests his forehead against the wall. One breath in, another out. “She was a foundling. You had to know it was a possibility.”

“Yes. I admit I haven’t considered it since we moved to this country, and the fault lies with no one but me.” Łukasz sighs. “Marcel...can you not even bear to look at me?”

“What I cannot bear,” he says, turning to face Łukasz, “is the thought that someone I believed to be a good, earnest man with an open spirit might take issue with something that is elementally and fundamentally a part of who his own daughter is, and who I am. You’ve never shown issue with magic or those of us who possess it.” 

Marcel’s heart sinks even further as another thought occurs. “Unless magic is for other people, acceptable at a distance, but a sin under your own roof. You would not be the first to hold such a belief.”

Łukasz shakes his head vehemently. “No! Never, I would never...it’s not that, I swear it.” 

He takes Marcel’s hand in a fierce grip. Marcel starts, but he doesn’t pull away, hoping against hope that his instincts about this man will be proven correct. He does not know that his heart could sustain the damage.

“Please,” says Łukasz, “let me...not excuse what I’ve done tonight, but explain?”

Marcel searches Łukasz’s face. He finds no lie there, just sorrow and exhaustion. After a moment he nods. 

“Very well.”

Łukasz takes a deep breath. “I have told you a little about my village.”

“Yes.”

“I did not tell you that magic is feared there.”

Involuntarily Marcel flinches. He has lived much of his life insulated from the hatred some of his magical kith and kin face every day and while their pain is also his pain, it is too easy to forget how lucky he is. He curses himself for such naïvety. 

“My family keeps the older ways, and so I was raised to welcome the sacred instead of holding it as something to hate. Jakub...the man I entrusted with my heart...was the opposite. He believed magic and its practitioners were tools of great evil, as did most of our fellows. It was never an issue between us. But then, during the early part of our sixth summer together, I had a dream.”

“Sara,” says Marcel softly, and Łukasz nods. 

“He was furious when I brought her home. He thought I’d been enchanted by a changeling, but I convinced him to see the truth of it, or so I thought. We agreed to pretend she was an illegitimate child we’d rescued from a parish across the Moravian borders and I trusted him to keep the secret. He was my most treasured friend, Marcel, and I loved him ardently. In the end it was not enough.”

“Do you want to tell me what happened?”

“No. But I think you should hear it, so you’ll understand better.” Łukasz takes a deep breath and his eyes are far away in memory. “Jakub...he held his tongue for sixth moons, but after the harvest came in poorly he was convinced it had something to do with the child I’d brought home, so he confessed to his grandmother that Sara was not what she seemed and asked what we had to do to cleanse the village of her sin and restore our harmony. She wanted to perform an exorcism.”

If Marcel was not in someone else’s home, he’d spit in distaste. “Hatred masking as superstition that could have killed a babe in the process.”

Łukasz nods and his grip on Marcel’s hand tightens. “That is what I told them. Never, not while I breathed. Before the next full moon the whole village knew, they began shunning me, whispering of my selfishness and the evil I’d brought on us all, how I should have left the child to die in the woods. Jakub turned from us, my business dried up, I couldn’t so much as bring Sara out of our house without being cursed at or worse...a woman spat at her, once. Can you imagine? Hating an innocent child so much?”

“No. I cannot.”

“Our life there was over. I strapped everything I could carry to my horse, put Sara on my back, and came west. I am not angered that Sara is magical, I am glad for it, because it’s who she is meant to be. However, I have seen some of what she may encounter because of it, and in that moment, when I should have been happy to see what she is capable of, I was terrified. I can't bear the thought of Sara coming to harm, Marcel. I can’t.”

Marcel puts his other hand on top of Łukasz’s so all of their hands are clasped tight and meets his gaze. “She will never face harm, not while I am here. I told you that you are not alone. Neither is she.”

Łukasz makes a pained sound, then to Marcel’s utter shock, darts his head forward and kisses him. It is too brief and yet already Marcel aches for more, but not under such circumstances as these.

“Forgive me,” Łukasz breathes, and Marcel shakes his head. 

“There is nothing to forgive.”


	8. Chapter 8

After a restless night, Marcel walks to the house near the western oaks once the sun reaches a reasonable height in the sky. His heart beats faster with each step; for good or for ill nothing is the same and only time will tell how they’ll fare.

He finds the front door open and Łukasz seated outside on a kitchen chair with a knife in one hand and a piece of wood in the other, whittling away.

Marcel nods in greeting. “What are you making?” 

“I haven’t decided yet,” answers Łukasz. 

Marcel looks down at his feet. “I wished to see-” he starts at the same moment Łukasz asks, “Have you eaten?”

They stumble over each other’s sentences like young foals taking their first steps, and the ensuing apologies are no better. The air between them holds an awkwardness that is as new as it is unpleasant. Łukasz seems at just as much of a loss as Marcel and on another day Marcel might wait for him to guide them to more comfortable ground, but he is the one who came here. It is on him.

“I wished to see how Sara is faring this morning,” he says after a moment. “Is she well?”

Łukasz nods. “She is, I think. Somewhat subdued, but she is spending the day with her friends, which should help.”

“Good. I’m pleased to hear it.”

The silence descends again. That could be it, Marcel’s errand complete, and yet. “And you? Are you well?”

Łukasz laughs once, rueful. “When I have an answer to that question, I’ll be sure to tell you. I am many things at the moment. Beyond that I cannot say.”

“Would you like me to leave?”

“No. I would not like that.” Łukasz stands and stretches. “I would ask you to stay, if I thought you would grant it.”

Marcel cocks his head and looks at Łukasz, really looks. The edges of him, normally so well-kempt, are frayed; he is wearing the same shirt from the night prior and he has not shaved this morning. The shadows beneath his eyes tell of a difficult night. 

“Come,” says Marcel, more confident than he feels, “let me make you some tea.”

He strides into the house and sets about filling the kettle. Łukasz follows after a moment and watches him from the doorway, leaning against the frame before coming closer. 

“I didn’t know that I would ever see you again, after last night.”

The words hit Marcel like a hammer and he is suddenly, irrationally angry. “Do you think so little of me, Łukasz Piszczek? That one incident is all it takes to cast you from my life?”

“I feared...no one wishes to expose the worst of themselves,” says Łukasz softly. “You have seen some of the worst of me.”

Heart pounding, Marcel abandons the kettle and moves to face him. “I have also seen you work to fix it and do the right thing. You’ve done Sara no lasting harm.”

“And what have I done to you?”

Marcel’s feet are carrying him forward before he quite realizes it. He stops just inside Łukasz’s space, nearly toe-to-toe with him. The fear beckons like a cavern inside him, endless and just waiting to swallow all of his good intentions, but Marcel holds fast. 

“You have done much.” 

His fingers shake as he lifts them to Łukasz’s cheek. He is warm under Marcel’s hand, new and somehow familiar as if all of his secret glances led him to conjure this very sensation. Łukasz leans into the touch in tacit permission and it gives Marcel the courage he needs to speak.

“You have shone light into my heart and awakened parts of me I believed would sleep forever.”

Without breaking eye contact Łukasz turns his head and places his mouth on Marcel’s wrist, right over his pulse. It is such a simple touch and yet so powerful; Marcel goes hot all over and even the scant distance between them seems unbearable and he fears he will go insane if he doesn’t take Łukasz’s face in his hands and kiss him this very instant.

Łukasz answers him immediately and the heat in Marcel banks to a blaze. He is all but suspended in disbelief that he’s being permitted this, but Łukasz’s hands taking hold of his waist to pull their bodies flush are real, so real. Marcel lets go of Łukasz’s face to bring his arms around his neck and surrenders to the feeling, opening his mouth to let Łukasz in and take their kiss deeper. His body had all but forgotten the closeness of another, but he remembers now, and he aches. 

“If we don’t stop I may do something foolish like demand that you take me to bed,” Marcel admits. 

Łukasz hums and presses closer, close enough that Marcel can feel the stirrings of a desire echoing his own. “That would be very foolish indeed, since-” 

He makes a face, then turns and hides a yawn in Marcel’s shoulder. “I was going to say something clever, but alas.”

He looks up, softer and less careworn than he’d seemed when Marcel first arrived, but the tiredness is plain to see. 

“You can be clever after you take some rest,” says Marcel.

“Very well.” Łukasz’s hands ease from Marcel’s waist to clasp together at the small of his back. “We are both tired after last night, I think, but if you find yourself in want of a bed to rest in this morning, I would not say no to sharing mine.”

There is something delightfully unexpected at hearing his own words echoed back, even if their night in the forest feels like a lifetime ago. Marcel presses his forehead to Łukasz’s and kisses him again, once, twice. 

“Then come. Share with me.”

*

It is strange to think that in all the time Marcel has spent in this house, he has never once set foot in Łukasz’s bedroom until now. The room is dominated by a large bed of oiled wood and its red patchwork quilt; there is a chest of drawers against the back wall and a small table at the bedside. A framed paper cutting hangs on one wall; the soft morning breeze comes in through the open window, rustling the pale blue curtains and filling the room with the scent of approaching rain. 

Climbing into bed fully dressed feels ridiculous while the prospect of undressing is too much, so Marcel opts to remove his belt and overshirt before making his way under the quilt in just his trousers and undershirt. The mattress is comfortable, not too soft, and the feather pillow is pleasant under his head. 

“Two pillows? If I didn’t know better I would suspect you entertained frequent company.”

Łukasz snorts. “Hardly. None at all, in fact.”

That pulls Marcel up short. “No one? In eight summers?”

“Not here, no. There have been some, mostly travelers passing through the village, but they were quick and never repeated, and never in my home. What of you?”

It’s Marcel’s turn to roll his eyes. “What do you think?”

“Far be it for me to make assumptions,” answers Łukasz, with the hint of a smile at the corner of his mouth.

“In fairness your assumptions are probably correct. It has been...two summers, for me. Not since my lover’s work took him elsewhere and we parted.”

“Mm. Marco mentioned that.”

Of course he did, the traitor. “Does the entire village hold such a curious interest in my affairs? Honestly, I’m beginning to believe they’re all unwell,” says Marcel with a huff.

Łukasz murmurs something in the Eastern tongue and pulls Marcel closer. His voice is low and warm around the syllables even though Marcel can’t parse a single word.

“Hmm?”

“Nothing.” Łukasz presses a kiss to his hair. “Sleep now.”

*

It is raining when Marcel wakes. Somehow in sleep he’s tangled himself around Łukasz, with his chest pressed to Łukasz’s back and one arm slung over his waist. Marcel closes his eyes, but when he opens them, the sight has not changed. He is really here. 

He ducks his head forward to kiss the back of Łukasz’s neck and nose against his hair, taking in the scent of him. Salt and clean skin, a hint of sawdust, something masculine and comforting. Łukasz stirs just enough for Marcel to glean his wakefulness without disrupting his exploration. Emboldened, Marcel kisses the back of Łukasz’s neck again, lingering this time. All he can hear is the rain outside and the sounds of their breathing. 

Łukasz tips his head forward and so Marcel continues his exploration. He lifts himself on one elbow to get better access and finds the place where Łukasz’s pulse thrums in his neck; Marcel scrapes his teeth gently across the skin, filing away the sharp intake of breath the action earns him. He does it again, firmer this time, and Łukasz makes a low sound in response.

“Wait a moment. Let me…”

Łukasz rolls over so they’re once again facing each other. His eyes are soft from sleep and there’s a crease on his cheek from the pillow. Marcel is so fond of him it’s almost painful. The urge to kiss him again is all but overwhelming and there is nothing to do but give in, to reach for Łukasz and allow himself to be eased onto his back with Łukasz’s warm weight settling on top of him, making a home in the cradle of his hips. 

Their kisses turn heady and desperate. Marcel tugs at Łukasz’s undershirt and nearly gets it over his head when a loud knock sounds from downstairs. He groans in irritation. Who calls so early on a Sunday? The knock echoes again, more insistent this time. 

Łukasz’s head drops to Marcel’s shoulder. “I don’t suppose you can curse them away?”

“It’s generally considered rude to curse one’s neighbors, although I share your sentiment.”

He should urge Łukasz up and off of him. He should insist they be polite and go answer the door. Marcel does neither. Instead he pulls Łukasz closer, determined to prolong the moment, until he hears a pair of familiar barks.

“Why are my hounds here?”

At that Łukasz does get up, albeit with an irate sigh. “I suppose we should go find out. However,” he leans down and kisses Marcel again, “I want it stated that I am not finished with you.”

The heat in his gaze warms Marcel down to his very core. He wets his lips. “I will hold you to that.”


	9. Chapter 9

Mimi and Oskar dart inside to Marcel’s feet as soon as Łukasz opens the door. They’re accompanied by young Julian Brandt and a tall thin man he’s never seen before. The stranger smells faintly of horse and rainwater and he appears unremarkable at first glance, but he does not wait to extend his magic as is custom, opting instead to reach out of his own accord. 

A mage. It is no wonder the hounds saw fit to bring him here. 

Marcel lifts his chin, holds eye contact, and returns the gesture with precisely the same amount of energy. The surprise is evident in the stranger’s raised eyebrow, as well as the hint of newfound caution. Good. Let it be known he is not one to be trifled with.

Łukasz comes to stand at his side. “Marcel?”

“There is nothing to fear,” he answers, keeping his voice even. “Is there, Julian?”

“Of course not! Why would you even think to- oh. Yes, of course. My apologies.”

Julian turns and swats his companion on the arm. “They are friends. _Friends,_ Bernd.”

The mage - Bernd, if Julian is to be believed - turns his odd gaze on Łukasz. “How old were you, when you met the Poludnitsa?”

The stunned look on Łukasz’s face steers Marcel into action. He steps between Łukasz and Bernd, shielding him from their unsettling new companion. 

“Watch your words, mage,” he says. Mimi and Oskar growl in agreement. 

“ _Bernd,”_ interrupts Julian, kindly but firmly. “Erdmute needs them to know why we’ve come.”

Marcel turns his head slightly when he feels Łukasz’s hand on his hip, but he does not move. “Who is Erdmute?”

“My horse. She needs liniment.” Bernd looks off into the distance. “The journey north has been strenuous; we are short on time and Julian assures me your treatments work wonders.”

The sentiment is pleasant enough, but it hardly makes up for dragging him out of Łukasz’s bed, on a Sunday no less. Alas, since he cannot see an alternative, Marcel nods. “Very well. Go, I’ll be right behind you.”

Julian looks between them and wiggles his eyebrows in a way that’s far too reminiscent of Marco for Marcel’s comfort. He doesn’t argue though; he taps Bernd on the shoulder and they set off back down the lane. 

Marcel watches them go. Łukasz’s arms come around his waist, loose enough that he could move away if he wishes. He does not. Instead he leans back, resting his back comfortably against Łukasz’s chest. Marcel closes his eyes. When was the last time a simple embrace made him feel so content? Content or not, though, he must step away, lest he stay forever and neglect his commitment. Marcel straightens his shirt, then takes Łukasz’s hand in his.

“Come to my house tonight. Please. If you can.”

Łukasz nods. “I will.”

They stare at each other for a moment in easy silence. Marcel curses under his breath and takes one final kiss before departing. 

It feels like a promise.

*

When Marcel returns home with Mimi and Oskar in tow, he finds Julian, Bernd, and a mildly disgruntled horse waiting just outside. Julian seems as carefree as ever, but unless Marcel is very much mistaken, Bernd and the horse - Erdmute, if his memory serves - are communicating with more than just glances. He unwards the house and steps back to let the hounds enter first, but curiously they choose to remain back instead, staring intently at Bernd. Mimi’s ears draw back close to her skull and Oskar bares his teeth, but he does not growl and neither make any overtures towards Bernd as they assess him. 

The man in question notices their attention immediately. He raises one eyebrow at Marcel.

“Your friends are loyal.”

Marcel flicks his gaze back at Erdmute. “As are yours.”

After a moment the hounds relax, having deemed Bernd acceptable in their home, and scamper inside. Some of Marcel’s disquiet lifts. If Mimi and Oskar find no fault, then their judgment will stand. 

Julian looks up at the sky and rubs his hands over his arms. “Schmelle, please, more rain is coming.”

“Fine, fine. Come. Although, I fail to see why you couldn’t have just called on Thorgan at the stables. Surely that would have been less of an ordeal,” Marcel tells him as they go into the house.

“RIght up to the moment he told us to seek you instead,” answers Julian. “I decided to save us all the time, and I thought, since you are both men of magic, that you might...um. Find companionship.” His jovial expression drops a little. “Have I erred?”

Marcel sighs. “No, you have not.”

His thoughts stray back to a certain red-quilted bed. Marcel drifts in memory for a moment, until he notices Bernd watching him. The back of his neck heats in embarrassment. 

“Forgive me. How, um, how much liniment do you require, Herr…”

“Leno,” Julian cuts in. “He doesn’t like formalities any more than you do, though.”

Bernd fixes Julian with a look. “I am able to speak for myself, you know.” He softens. “Although, he is right. I don’t care for any word that sets me apart from others.”

“That, at least, is something we have in common. Now, as to your horse, I have two sizes of liniment pots you can take on your journey, depending on how much further you have to travel.”

“We travel for the coast, with haste. I have to make the northern port at sundown three days from now, lest I miss the ship and have to wait for the next one.”

Marcel nods and retrieves his larger pot. He remains dubious of Bernd, but there’s no deception about him, and more importantly, none of dangerous magic’s telltale sulphurous whiff. Besides, every man is allowed to keep his secrets. A mage is no different, provided they maintain their decorum.

“To where do you sail?”

“To the British Isles,” answers Bernd, and Marcel nearly drops the crockery in his hand.

“For what purpose?”

“To meet with like-minded folk and study throughout the isles, although it is none of your concern.” 

Bernd’s features once again take the same odd expression he wore earlier, back in front of Łukasz’s house. “Unless...it is.”

Julian rolls his eyes. “Are you two finished speaking in riddles?”

They ignore him. Bernd moves closer to Marcel, magic outstretched, inquiring. Marcel allows the search and puts forth a memory for him to view; the energy retreats and Bernd cocks his head to one side. “I have never heard of a water-horse willing to suffer company or enchantments.”

“Nor had I, until I saw it before me. But it cannot stay in our waters forever, and my magic is not positioned to help it back home. You, though, with your clear understanding of creatures…” 

Marcel gives Bernd a meaningful look. Bernd holds his gaze, then looks down at the hounds nearby.

“They are easier for me, than people.”

“I feel the same way about plants,” Marcel offers, and that earns him a small smile.

“I am meeting a friend who hails from the Scotian Isles,” says Bernd, “and we will figure out how to return this water-horse to the lochs where it belongs.”

Marcel packs the liniment into a basket with some clean bandages and a pouch of dried ginger to combat seasickness. He hands it to Bernd with a nod. 

“May your journey be safe and your travels be swift,” he says. “We’ll speak more upon your return.”

Bernd inclines his head. “Indeed, I think we will.”

*

Even with that errand completed, Marcel opts not to return to the house near the western oaks. He has the weekly brewing to distract him, and the time to recenter himself is welcome. Marcel’s thoughts keep straying to Łukasz, though, and he does not fight it. Instead he allows the thoughts to warm him as he works. The anticipation settles low and familiar in his gut. Tonight, he’d said, and meant it, whatever that may yield.

Finally the sun begins its descent below the horizon. Marcel takes a deep breath and goes to wash, cleansing every drop of work from his body and leaving a hint of birch in its wake. He trims his beard and cleans his teeth before retreating to his wardrobe to dress in a simple dark shirt and clean trousers. Nothing that says...expectation. Marcel has no clear expectations for the evening. Hopes, yes, and desire, tempered by his natural caution. 

He’s just taken to pacing around the living room when a knock sounds on the front door. Heart leaping in his chest, Marcel hurries to answer, and sure enough Łukasz stands on the threshold, head tilted as if he, too, is alight with nerves. 

The breathless smile emerges on his face before Marcel can even think to stop it. He reaches out with one hand and Łukasz takes it; whatever Marcel planned to say dries up on his tongue at the simple touch. As soon as the door closes he presses Łukasz back against it and kisses him firmly just as he’s wished to all day long. Łukasz hums, wrapping him closer to answer every trace of his passion, and Marcel moans. 

He scrapes together just enough presence of mind to pull back and ask,

“How long can you stay?”

“Until dawn,” answers Łukasz.

“Then...you will stay? With me?”

Łukasz squeezes their entwined fingers. “Of course I will.”

*

It is the easiest thing in the world for Marcel to guide Łukasz upstairs to his bedroom. He takes the reassurance his own space offers, reaches for Łukasz, and kisses him again. With every motion his reservations fade away as muscle memory takes over. Oh, he has missed this, hungered across long cold nights for another’s touch, thirsted for the familiar rasp of an unshaven cheek against his own. Marcel could drown in the pleasure at finally, finally having these things in reach. His fingers fumble on Łukasz’s shirt buttons but nevertheless he persists until each one is unfastened and the bare skin he’s dreamt of is finally his to touch. 

He reaches for the button on Łukasz’s trousers, but Łukasz stops him. “Let me.”

Łukasz steps back and removes his shirt before coming back to divest Marcel of his own shirt. His eyes are warm, almost too much to bear, but Marcel refuses to look away or keep his hands from wandering. 

“Are you well?” asks Łukasz. “Not uncomfortable?”

Marcel huffs. “You don’t have to treat me as if I’m going to shatter when you touch me, you know.” He does appreciate the concern, though, and continues, “I am well. And I give you my permission to do your very worst, if that’s what you need to hear.”

Łukasz hums and brings one hand to Marcel’s chest, trailing his fingers through the sparse blond hair there. “Maybe it is.”

Something in his bearing shifts. His touches become much less cautious, more taking the initiative instead of waiting for Marcel’s lead, and Łukasz makes short work of the rest of their clothes until they stand naked in the cool evening air. He’s as pleasing to look at unclothed as Marcel imagined he would be, tall and sturdy with a body fashioned by hard work and sunshine. Marcel wishes to touch, and so he does, content to learn and be learned while Łukasz reciprocates in kind and the air between them catches fire. 

Eventually Marcel’s impatience begins to catch up with him. His mouth feels pleasantly swollen from trading kisses and his skin is alight everywhere Łukasz touches him, but it’s not enough. Just as he’s about to demand Łukasz take him to bed properly, Łukasz takes Marcel’s hips in his hands and maneuvers him firmly over, until the backs of his legs meet the side of his mattress

“What-”

“Sit down.”

Wide-eyed, Marcel does as he’s bidden, and watches as Łukasz sinks to his knees. The sight steals the breath right from Marcel’s lungs; it returns for the scant instant before Łukasz, without breaking eye contact, leans forward to take Marcel into his mouth. 

It takes a moment to realize that the soft sounds of pleasure are, in fact, coming from him. Marcel can scarcely believe this is happening; he’s had relations of this sort before, of course, but never with someone who seems to truly relish it as Łukasz does. He is unhurried and thorough, clearly determined to drive every coherent thought from Marcel’s mind. Marcel’s hands find their way to Łukasz’s head, weaving together in his hair as he surrenders to the feeling. Łukasz makes a low satisfied sound and pushes up into the touch. 

Marcel gladly loses track of time as the feeling builds steadily inside him. Somehow he remembers his manners and tries to warn Łukasz of his impending release, but instead of letting him go Łukasz squeezes his thigh and continues until Marcel is gasping out his completion. He falls back on the bed, trying to catch his breath. 

“Get- get up here.”

Łukasz stands up and crawls onto the bed like a particularly satisfied housecat. Marcel could spend hours watching him, learning every shift of muscle under his skin, but for now he has another purpose. He moves until they’re lying pressed together, then reaches down to take Łukasz in hand, curling deft fingers around him and learning how he likes to be touched. He is beautiful like this, utterly captivating as Marcel knew he would be, unashamed in seeking his own satisfaction. 

He spends across their stomachs with a low sigh of Marcel’s name. Marcel kisses him through it, taking every single one of Łukasz’s sighs for his own. Gradually they still and together they find a comfortable position atop the quilts, limbs entangled as their breath returns. Łukasz brushes the back of his hand across Marcel’s cheek and offers him a soft, lazy smile that Marcel returns easily. He cannot remember the last time he felt so content. 

As reluctant as he is to move, the realities of their coupling will soon grow unpleasant and so Marcel kisses Łukasz once more and murmurs, “I will be right back.”

He’s grateful he had the foresight to prepare a bowl of chamomile water earlier in the day. Marcel wets a cloth and brings it back so they can cleanse themselves before retreating under the quilts. Łukasz wraps his arms around Marcel’s shoulders and he goes easily into the embrace. Sleep tugs at Marcel’s consciousness, but he fights it off, loath to miss a single moment of their first night together.

“I’ve decided to add to my brewing schedule tomorrow,” he muses, and Łukasz hums an inquiry. 

“Oh?”

“Mm. An old favorite that I have not had cause to make in recent summers, but I think the time has come.”

“And what exactly will you be making?”

“A balm to ease the act of love between men.”

Łukasz's arms tighten around him. “I look forward to helping you ensure the recipe works as well as you remember.”

“I expect you’ll follow my rigorous testing procedure,” says Marcel, looking up at him.

Łukasz smiles, eyes alight with warmth and mischief. “Of course. I am at your disposal, good witch, in any form you wish to have me.”

“And if I wish to have you in all forms?”

“Then I am yours.” Łukasz turns serious for a moment and pulls back just enough to ensure they’re facing either properly. “My heart is yours, if you’ll have it.”

“I. Of course, I mean-” Of course the Fates choose this very moment to rob Marcel of his eloquence, even if the sweet effervescent joy bubbling up inside of him more than makes up for it. “Yes. I will have you, if you’ll have me in return.” 

“You must know I do not come alone,” says Łukasz. 

“I seem to remember a certain girl child of yours coming to chastise me for missing dinner one evening, so yes, I know.” He squeezes Łukasz’s hand, reassuring. “You are her father, of course, but I will be a part of Sara’s life in whatever capacity she wishes.”

He makes a small surprised noise when Łukasz not-quite pounces and presses him firmly back against the mattress, holding him tightly. Marcel holds back just as tightly. He catches Łukasz murmur something in the Eastern tongue; he does his best to imitate the sounds but the strange consonants catch on his tongue like cloth snagged on a nail.

“You will have to teach me a few words, so I don’t completely mangle your language,” he murmurs.

Łukasz nods and presses a kiss to the sensitive place where Marcel’s neck meets his shoulder. “I will, _mój kochany._ I will.”


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This began as a short epilogue and then developed an opinion, so.

_Epilogue_

“Like this?”

Sara turns an inquisitive expression on Marcel from her place at the hearth and holds up her small firestarter. It is properly yet hastily arranged, lacking the patience that will come with time and practice. 

Marcel makes a soft affirmative sound and comes to join her by the fireplace. “That looks better. What do we do next?”

“We must spell the branches,” Sara answers. Her mouth narrows in concentration, much like her father’s does. “We ask that it burns only when requested, and...where we bid it to. Yes! When asked, and where bidden.”

She raises her hands and brings them up over the wood, cradling the emergent spell in her palms. Sara takes a small breath, then releases the spell onto the firestarter; her face lights up as the red and gold energy holds it form long enough to connect with the wood before sinking gently under the bark and beyond. 

“Did it work, Marcel?”

He lifts her firestarter to eye level and puts forth his own magic to gauge its effectiveness. After a moment he meets her wide eyes with a satisfied nod.

“It is well-made. You should be pleased.”

Sara beams. “I want to go show Tata.”

She makes to dart off outside, but Marcel catches her. “Let me fix your hair, first.”

Indeed, the ribbon at the end of her braid appears to have come undone, so Marcel reties it in a double-knot, then lets her go, smiling softly to himself as the back door opens and closes. His heart seems to swell in his chest as it often does these days; something akin to pride grows in him from watching Sara’s magical progress as Marcel strives to teach her what he knows. Her magic is different enough that she will eventually need a more appropriate instructor, but for now he relishes their time together. 

When Sara does not come back inside right away, Marcel goes out to check on her. To his complete lack of surprise he finds her crouched on the ground next to Łukasz, pointing out every detail of her creation. Łukasz looks up and offers him a smile.

“I see you are making great progress together.”

Marcel scuffs one foot against the ground, pleased. “And I see you are making your own progress on my new window boxes.”

“Indeed. You should be able to line them with soil by tomorrow, provided the weather holds.”

“Thank you.”

The hounds start barking from inside the house, and so Sara scampers off to go investigate, leaving them alone. Marcel helps Łukasz to his feet and brushes a stray wood shaving from his sleeve, giving into the urge to sigh when Łukasz thanks him with a kiss. Even after some time together and the season on the verge of changing, Marcel’s awe at having his feelings requited has remained. He can scarcely believe it, and he kisses Łukasz once more to remind himself that yes, it is real, and his affection is more than welcome here. 

“Come,” says Marcel. “There is fresh apple and mint juice cooling for you in the root cellar.”

Hand in hand, they set off inside the house, only to find Sara in the foyer with the hounds and a smiling Julian. He nods at them and their joined hands. 

“Schmelle. Piszczu.”

“Julian. What brings you here?” asks Marcel.

“Well. Two things. First, Marco sent me to tell you both that your presence is required at the tavern this evening, and,” he adds, with a meaningful look at Łukasz, “Axel and Thorgan have volunteered to mind all of the children, so neither of you has an excuse.”

Alas. Their friends know them well, for good and for ill. “And second?” 

Julian withdraws a crumpled piece of parchment from his satchel. “Second, Bernd sent you a letter.” He grins at them and winks at Sara. “I will see you later, then?”

“Seeing as our choice has been stripped from us, yes,” says Łukasz, but he’s smiling too, not truly perturbed. 

After Julian takes his leave, Marcel examines the letter in his hands. The blue wax seal is unbroken and shimmers with warning magic that recedes at his touch, a tacit recognition that he is indeed the intended. He goes to open it, but something else occurs to him. 

“Sara.”

She looks up from her game of tug-of-war with the hounds. “What?”

“Come here.”

She does as she’s bidden; without prompting she reaches out to touch the seal and her eyes widen as the shimmering begins again. “It...it does not like me.”

Marcel touches the wax and once again the enchantment relaxes. “That is because it does not recognize you. It is a guard spell, set to open for a specific person, and in this case, the person is me. Now that you’ve Awoken, when you see a seal, or a lock, or a gate, you must be mindful lest it be warded like this. Understand?”

Sara nods. “I will.” She rocks on her tiptoes. “Open it! I want to see what the spell does.”

The seal opens with no fanfare. Marcel has to hide a smile at her disappointment. “Maybe the contents will be more interesting,” he says, and a quick scan proves him quite correct. 

The missive is short and curt, as is Bernd’s way, but the news is good, even if it requires...explanation.

“What does it say?” Łukasz asks, and Marcel bites his lip.

“Cover your ears for a moment.”

Łukasz gives him a look. “What? Why?”

“Very important witch business.”

Although he still looks unconvinced, Łukasz does as he’s asked. A quick gesture with two fingers for a brief silencing spell, then Marcel crouches down to Sara.

“The mage I told you of is returning, with a friend from the Scotian Isles. They know how to bring the water-horse home, but we will need your help, and for that...I think we should tell your father now, so he will be ready when the time comes.”

Sara bites her lip. “Will he understand?”

“So long as he trusts us to protect you, then yes, I think he will.”

She thinks it over for a moment. Eventually, though, she slips her hand into Marcel’s and squeezes. He returns the gesture in reassurance, then releases the silencing spell with a word. 

“Very important witch business concluded?” asks Łukasz.

“Almost,” answers Marcel. He takes Łukasz’s hand and puts it atop where his own still holds Sara’s. “We have something to tell you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to say a heartfelt thank you to every person who read and commented on this story. It has truly been an honor and a joy to see the way you reacted and welcomed this universe, and it means so much to me. Thank you for coming on this journey with me.


End file.
